


What Happens in Vegas

by DJClawson



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Fratt - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20301586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJClawson/pseuds/DJClawson
Summary: Matt and Frank take a road trip.





	What Happens in Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> For catfoolery.

Red wanted to go to Vegas.

Which was _crazy_.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just shoot people in New York,” Frank said to the man who refused to visit the outer boroughs.

“First of all, we’re not shooting anyone,” Red said, and then in response to Frank’s expression that he could always somehow sense – maybe it was body language – he said, “We’re not _killing _anyone.”

“I didn’t say kill.”

“You meant it.”

Frank didn’t know why Red even had luggage to set on the bed. When had he ever gone anywhere? “I can’t take my guns on the plane.”

“We’re not flying,” Red said, apparently having this all planned out despite his very recent announcement. “We’re driving.”

“You mean _I’m_ driving.”

“I could probably drive. If there was no traffic and we left the windows open - ”

Frank pictured Red holding his head out the driver’s side window, like a dog. Which is what he would probably do. “I’m driving. Do you know how far Vegas is?”

“I found that to be an irrelevant detail,” Red said. “Do you want to get Francetti or not?”

Obviously, Frank did. Just because the mob boss was holed up in Las Vegas with his girlfriend didn’t mean Frank wanted him any less. He had just intended to wait it out. He could be a very patient man. But Matt Murdock was not. He needed to go to Vegas and he needed to go right now, it seemed.

“Don’t know if you know this,” Frank said, “but Vegas is full of cameras. All kinds of face-capture technology.”

Red grinned. “Are you saying you’re scared to walk into a casino?”

“I’m sayin’ you don’t want me gunning down a bunch of security guards, do you?”

“They don’t know me,” Red said practically as he wandered over to his closet and started feeling up the labels on the hangers.

“What are you going to do? Sit down at a table with Francetti and play cards?”

“It’s a long drive. There’ll be plenty of time for you to give me pointers.”

Nelson took the news that they were going to Vegas – by car at least one of the ways – about as well as Frank thought he would. “Oh, did Frank finally pop the question?”

Red had his phone on speaker. “No, Foggy.”

“Because you don’t have to go to Vegas for that. The registry opens at nine.”

“I thought you hated me,” Frank said.

“I don’t hate you, Frank,” Nelson said. It probably wasn’t a lie. He was tough on his feet in court but he was a big softie. “I just don’t want you to get Matt killed.”

“I’m more than capable of doing that on my own,” Red said. “We’ll be back in a few days.”

“Did either of you look up how long it takes to drive to Vegas? Or Nevada in general?”

“Make it a week,” Frank said.

“I could probably do it,” Red said with way too much confidence.

They were on I-80. For the second day. There was no traffic of any kind, and they had exhausted the entire catalog of music they could both agree on, so they were bored. Matt had his head tilted towards the open window – he was less nauseous with a breeze, he said.

“We’re surrounded by desert,” Frank replied. “If you destroy the car, we’ll die out here.”

“At least then I’ll get out of my student loans.”

Because Frank was helpless against that fucker’s adorable expression, he found an off-ramp to pull the car into and gave Red an impromptu driving lesson, which would hopefully go even slightly better than the poker lesson in the hotel the night before, which only served to establish that Matt could not play poker – something Frank already knew.

“If you do anything but tap the accelerator, I will put a bullet in your brain,” Frank said. “Take your left foot off the break. You can’t use that foot. It’s one foot for both pedals.”

“That seems like a waste.”

“It’s the way it is. Now go.”

Red did not need to put his entire head out the window, but a good chunk of it was out so he could do his radar thing, which couldn’t be picking up shit on an empty road. Then, because he was a motherfucker, he slammed the accelerator, and only Frank’s steadying hand on the steering wheel kept them from flipping over into a ditch. After a few miles, Red had had enough, and the car slowed to a surprisingly gentle stop so he could get out and vomit.

“Did you get it on video for Foggy?” was all Matt said when Frank approached him with a water bottle.

He hadn’t. Red slept the rest of the day.

Finding Francetti in Vegas was stupidly easy.

Maybe it was all of the sunlight and the oxygen being pumped into people’s lungs, and the booze and the smoking allowed in public spaces, and grandparents in tracksuits at the slot machines, but Vegas was far from New York and that gave people a false sense of comfort. Frank had a friend from the service who now gave helicopter tours of the Grand Canyon, and he was able to instantaneously narrow it down to three places Francetti might be staying, then five minutes of calling around to find out which one it was.

“Don’t try any Ocean’s Eleven shit,” his friend told him. “Just wait for him at the lazy river at the Mandalay Bay. He goes there every afternoon.”

So, no, Matt, they were not gonna need their tuxedoes. Frank didn’t have one, and Matt’s didn’t fit his, and also why did Red have a tuxedo in the first place?

“Elektra,” was all Red said to that, which was enough.

Despite Red’s insistence on the long trip, he had been strung out and carsick for most of it, and now the heat and unfamiliar locale wasn’t helping him. Even though they didn’t stay on the strip, he said the noise was constant, and he stayed in the tub, his head back so his ears were just below the water. Frank made several trips to buy more of that fancy shit ginger ale, the kind with the real ginger.

Daredevil wasn’t quite the tricky little devil in the daylight that he was at night, especially when there were no tall buildings for him to jump from or climb up. Frank had no problem maneuvering his way around, but Matt didn’t come all this way just to sit back and let Frank take the lead. Frank did rudimentary surveillance, which was especially easy because Francetti had two blonds at his side at all times. Frank could get close enough at the fake beach at the hotel to hear him talking about his evening plans with them.

The FBI wanted to move on Francetti, but didn’t know where he was because they were stupid or lazy as hell, Frank couldn’t decide. Red wanted to toss him into their lap. It wasn’t a terrible plan. It certainly wasn’t his worst.

“Did they really film Ocean’s Eleven up here?” Red said as they stood on the roof of the Bellagio, waiting for Francetti to emerge to return to his hotel for the night.

“Naw, I’m sure it was all sets. Actors don’t like to get hurt. Why? Did you see it?”

“It was one of Foggy’s favorite movies in college,” he said.

“The fountain was probably real.” And Frank had been watching it for three hours. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s soothing,” Red said, if he could even hear it. They weren’t that high up, but there was a lot of wind. “He’s coming. Let’s go.”

Red went first because he was flashy – he would attract the attention, and Frank would flank him – or in this case, just knock the guy out with a tranquilizer bullet. He had to fire from an odd angle while trying not to hit Red, and he enjoyed the challenge. Red deposited one unconscious mobster on a police car before leaping up onto another building. It was all so fast people were reacting as if they were trying to decide whether they had just seen a circus performance or not by the time he was gone. Frank never even had to come down from his stoop. He took the elevator home. No one bothered him.

Red never got to wear his tuxedo or play poker. He agreed to give up on that dream when Frank promised him a game of strip poker when they got home – and he promised to lose.

End


End file.
